His Voice
by resurrectinglazarus
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been dead for two years, or so it seems. He's really alive and well and still solving crimes. However, his time away from home has been more difficult than he ever anticipated. He hears his voice... Everywhere... ((SEASON 3 SPOILERS))
1. Chapter 1

"Faster, faster!"

Sherlock obeyed the voice and forced his legs to move as fast as physically possible.

"Faster, Sherlock! Run!"

The voice was getting louder now, almost deafening. He couldn't hear anything else but the voice, not the approaching helicopter, not the crunching of dead leaves beneath his feet, not the shouts of the men chasing him, not even his own ragged breathing.

All he could think about was John.

John, John, John.

"Run Sherlock!"

He was beginning to stumble. He knew John's voice was only in his mind. He'd gotten used to it over the past couple of years, speaking to him in always the worst possible moments.

But the voice was stronger this time, more insistent. It was almost as if the John in his head knew Sherlock was in danger, which was logical because the voice was only a figment of his imagination… Right?

"Sherlock!"

The voice was disorienting him. His legs were beginning to fatigue and he was losing sense of direction. He needed to pull himself together or else-

And then he was on his knees, cowering like a lost child. Men with guns loomed over him. He couldn't tell how many. He only saw snapshots of their faces and guns pointed straight at his head. What were they shouting? He couldn't understand. His mind was too foggy to comprehend anything.

The voice said, softer this time, "Sherlock…"

He put his head between his knees in resignation, unable to withstand the overwhelming images.

And then everything went silent.

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly to complete darkness. He wondered for a split second if he was dead, but, upon moving his head, realized he wasn't.

The room felt hot and humid, which caused his bruised skin to perspire. It smelled musty, as if the room had been unused for a very long time. His bare feet could feel that the floor was made of deteriorating stones that were slicked with water.

His mind already sharpening again, he deduced after only a few moments he was in the room of the warehouse he had broken into just hours earlier.

Even though he wasn't being Sherlock Holmes, he was still doing detective work. He had completed cases all over Europe, and his newest one was in Serbia. He had gone into it thinking it would be an easy case that would take him barely any time to complete. Normally, he wouldn't take cases like this and go for the more difficult ones instead, but the Serbian government was offering him a hefty reward, which he desperately needed.

The case was a drugs bust. A group of former military men had stolen various pieces of Serbian military property, including guns and a helicopter. The government suspected they were using these to smuggle various drugs into Serbia, which was indeed the case. Most drugs busts only took Sherlock only an hour at most to solve, but the guns and helicopter would lengthen that time, and make things more interesting. He agreed to take the case.

It turned out that these drug smugglers were more clever than he had anticipated, using some military tactics he recognized from a few books, but failed to realize they were using them until they had already gotten away. The case ended up turning into a wild goose chase. Sherlock would uncover their plans, and, just as quickly, the smugglers would change their tactics.

After about a week of this, Sherlock had finally thought he'd found a solid lead. He discovered they were hiding in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a deserted forest. It seemed almost too simple to be true. As always, he decided to go alone to investigate. He regretted that decision as soon as he stepped foot into the warehouse. When he opened the door, he discovered three men with rifles prepared to shoot, making Sherlock with his pistol look absolutely pathetic.

The rest was a blur. All he could remember was that he spent what he assumed was quite a long time running frantically through the forest. It could have been hours. He had lost his gun somewhere along the way.

And John… His fragmented memories were telling him John was there too, but he knew that couldn't be possible.

Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and found that his vision had become less blurry.

He began to test his aching joints to see if anything had been broken or injured more than slightly. Everything was functioning as properly as they could in the given circumstances, except for his arms. His shoulders were straining against something, and he could barely feel the rest of his arms at all.

With some effort, he lifted his head and shook his overgrown and matted curls out of his face. He looked to his right to see that his wrist was cuffed and attached to a chain that was anchored on the wall a few feet away. He looked to his left and saw the same thing.

He sighed and let his head drop down again. He should have assumed they would restrain him if they didn't kill him. They might kill him yet.

A light source above him flickered a few times before it remained lit. He looked up and saw a large floodlight just above his head. He winced from the shock of the light and looked away.

He blinked to clear his vision, and more accurately observed his surroundings. The room was at the end of an arched hallway, otherwise dimly lit. The whole building, as it seemed, was entirely made out of stone. It wasn't cluttered, but meaningless objects scattered the hallway as far down as he could see.

He turned around and observed a staircase leading up to a crude doorway. To the right was the only window in the room, and below it sat a table with more meaningless objects resting atop it.

A man with a shaved head came down the stairs. He was wearing simple black clothing and was carrying a rusty pipe that he probably removed from the disintegrating plumbing. He had an intimidating step and expression. An army man, obviously, but most likely the navy. He bore a wedding band on his finger, but it was not well maintained. An unhappy marriage, then.

Sherlock turned back around and put his head back down to hide his face with his hair.

The man jerked the chain on his right wrist up in order to pass under. When he was through, he jerked it back down again. Neither actions did his already aching shoulder any good.

The man asked a question in a different language… Most likely Serbian.

"What?" Sherlock breathed in Serbian to test his theory, and to hear the question again.

The man grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head up to look him in the eyes. "Who. Are. You?" he repeated in Serbian, annunciating each word.

Sherlock decided that no matter what this man did to him, he would put off revealing his identity for as long as possible. He could give him a fake name and story, but the man would still kill him, and even faster than if he had said nothing at all. He would put off confessing in hopes that some government officials could rescue him. Even if it was a bleak and futile hope, it was all he had.

Sherlock shook his head a microscopic amount, looking the man right in the eyes.

The man threw Sherlock's head down with a cry of exasperation, sending a wave of pain down Sherlock's spine. He groaned softly.

He could hear the man's footsteps had traveled a few feet away. He heard him turn around and say, "I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

His face still concealed by his hair, Sherlock rolled his eyes. How very typical.

Sherlock's perception of time was warped, but he estimated he had been in captivity for about three days with no food or water. He wouldn't have minded, for he had gone days without food or drink simply because he had forgotten about it, but the room was so humid and hot that he was losing copious amounts of water due to profuse sweating. His skin practically dripped, and sometimes did. His days consisted of a twenty or thirty minute flogging session via the man's pipe, after which the man would disappear up the steps again for a few hours, only to return again for another ruthless beating. Sherlock had welts and cuts and bruises all over his body, but it was especially awful on his back and face. As a result of the frequent abuse, common shouting from upstairs, and the fact that the light was always left on, Sherlock had barely slept the entire time. The largest amount of sleep he managed to steal was only for about fifteen minutes, only to awaken to the man with the pipe flogging his back worse than ever before.

Sherlock was beginning to hear John's voice more frequently due to sleep deprivation, which was both a blessing and a curse. John would soothe him with things like "It's going to be alright," or "I'm right here. It's okay," which made Sherlock's predicament almost enjoyable. Then Sherlock would snap back to reality and feel a void opening up inside his chest, consuming all hope of ever being freed. The hole-in-his-chest feeling was something he had become accustomed to in his time away from John, but now it was eating him alive. Sometimes it felt like the despair was killing him, and he would shout John's name without thinking. Then the man would come down and beat him again, leaving him shaking with blood dripping from his skin and tears falling from his eyes.

One day, the man returned with his pipe in hand and someone else behind him. Sherlock could hear as they came down the stairs that there was not just one set of footsteps, but two. He flicked his eyes open in surprise when he heard this, and quickly closed them again.

He was too fatigued to keep his eyes open for any length of time or to maintain his posture. His back was completely arched over and the only thing supporting him were the chains that bound his wrists, putting even more stress on his sore bones. His legs were twisted together and completely useless.

The man yanked on the chain, a feeling that Sherlock had gotten used to, to let his guest pass beneath it before he proceeded. Once the new man passed through, Sherlock observed that the man was well dressed and obviously not a drug smuggler. There was a pistol on his belt that looked like it belonged to the government, but was different from the pistol the other man carried on his belt. The new man hadn't gotten it from the smugglers then, which increased the likelihood of him being a government official. Sherlock examined his walk and posture, which were professional as well as slightly intimidating. No doubt he worked in the government.

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, and made sure to hide it from the man with that bloody pipe.

It was no use, since he began to beat him again and shout at him senselessly.

Through his shouts of agony and the sound of the metal on his bear flesh, he somehow heard the other man sit down in a nearby chair and prop his legs up on a stool. Well is the bastard going to help him or not?

After a few minutes, the flogging finally ceased. Sherlock took the opportunity and attempted to calm his breath.

"You broke in here for a reason," the man accused as he slowly paced towards the left hand wall. He set down his pipe and picked up much a larger one. He returned to his place in front of the bloodied man. "Just tell us why and you can sleep."

"Don't tell him," John's voice ordered. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the sound of his friend's voice.

"Remember sleep?" mocked the man with the pipe.

"Do something!" John shouted, blocking out all other noises.

The man raised the pipe over his head in preparation to strike.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

"You were in the navy," Sherlock whispered.

The man lowered the pipe. "What?" He yanked Sherlock's head up by his curls. The man leaned his ear closer to hear what Sherlock had to say.

"You were in the navy," he said, a bit louder this time. "You had a love affair, not a happy one, at that."

He let go of Sherlock's head more gently than before.

"Well? What did he say?" The new man's accent seemed… forced.

"He said that I used to work in the navy," the abuser repeated incredulously, still staring down at Sherlock, "where I had an unhappy love affair."

"And?" the guest said. Sherlock realized the new man was testing him to see if it truly was him, or he had a sick sense of humor.

"I know the electricity in your bathroom needs repair," Sherlock continued. "Your wife is also sleeping with your neighbor, by the way"

The man with the pipe repeated in astonishment, "That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbor."

He jerked Sherlock's head up again and demanded, "Who?"

"It's the coffin maker."

The man let go of Sherlock's hair. "The coffin maker… And? And?" he said bending down to hear Sherlock.

Sherlock thought for a moment, and smiled to himself as he said, "You can catch them at it if you go home right now."

Of course, there was no way he could have possibly have known that, but the man was obviously a compulsive person. Sherlock knew he would take the bait.

"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it." He turned towards the hallway and said, "I knew it. I knew there was something going on."

He started running. Sherlock heard him sliding something, probably a metal door, and close it, leaving Sherlock and the new man alone.

Calmly, the man said, "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me."

Sherlock wondered why the man wouldn't just get him out of there. Why wasn't he even the least bit alarmed?

He began to rise from his chair, "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you," he said slowly and cryptically as he made his way across the room. His footsteps rang in Sherlock's ears. He could hear the beating of his own heart.

"Sherlock!" John screamed again.

He pulled Sherlock's head up by his hair, just as the other man had done. "Now listen to me," he said in perfect English.

Mycroft.

Sherlock cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid?

Mycroft went on, "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent."

Sherlock raised his brows.

"Sorry," Mycroft said sarcastically, "but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Mycroft dropped his head.

Sherlock sighed. There was nothing worse than seeing his brother for the first time in almost two years, only to be immediately outsmarted by him.

"Back to Baker Street," Mycroft barked.

"Come home," John pleaded.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft added.

"I miss you, Sherlock," John said.

"I miss you, too," Sherlock replied inside his mind, smiling to himself.

He would finally get to see John again. This was the opportunity he had been hoping, praying for ever since he faked his death. Being without John was becoming almost unbearable, even before he was captured. John was like a drug. Sherlock couldn't get enough of his army doctor, couldn't even function properly without him, even if he wanted to try. Sherlock's mind was getting slower and slower the more time he spent away from John. He didn't know why. He had been fine before he met John. More than fine, absolutely brilliant. But then he got a taste of John Watson, who made him better than he was before, and there was no turning back.

Yes, back to Baker Street, then. Back to being Sherlock Holmes. Everything will be just as it was before. Perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to all who read the previous chapter! I'm quite flattered, considering I've never actually written fan fiction before. I was inspired by the newest season, simply because I didn't feel like we got a lot of closure between John and Sherlock, and this is kind of my version of a coping mechanism to be more emotionally fulfilled. I'll admit, it's not very original, since I'm mainly just copying what happened in the canon and adding little things of my own in here and there, but what fan fiction is truly original? None. And that's the point, isn't it?

Oh, and if you didn't notice, it takes me forever to update. This is because I'm very busy with my ballet schedule and I'm also quite lazy. I'll try to add a chapter once every week or too, but no guarantees.

Thank you again for reading!

* * *

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" a waiter asked in a thick French accent from behind him.

"Hi, yeah, I'm looking for a bottle of champagne," John informed him. "A good one."

"Hm, well these are all excellent…" the waiter muttered. John couldn't quite catch the last word his accent was so intense.

"Uh that's not really my area," John responded. "What do you suggest?"

"Well you could possibly go home," the waiter replied rather rudely. "But if you'd like my personal recommendation, this last one on the list is a favorite of mine."

He pointed to the name of the champagne which was, of course, in French.

The waiter continued, "It is, might if I say, like a face from the past."

John sighed and reached for his wine glass to finish it off. He hated people who talked in riddles.

"Right, I'll have that one please."

"It is familiar, but with a quality of surprise!" he rambled on.

John winced. Perhaps he shouldn't have drunk that last sip all in one go.

"Well uh, surprise me," John declared.

"Certainly endeavouring to, sir," he said not as enthusiastically as before, but John wasn't going to give him the benefit of glancing at him as he walked away. He could go find attention from someone else.

Where was Mary? Sometimes it baffled John at how long some women took in the loo.

Impulsively, he reached for the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the tiny, magenta box just to glance at it for a moment before replacing it again. He couldn't believe he was actually going to do this. He pulled it out again and this time he carefully opened it to reveal a delicate silver ring with three shining diamonds embedded in the velvet. He quickly snapped it shut again before placing it on the table and twirling it between his fingers to inspect it.

John was already working up a sweat, although there didn't seem any logical reason to be. He'd planned this to make sure it was perfect for Mary. The restaurant and the ring were easy, so he thought the words would be as well. But now that the moment was so near, John wasn't so sure.

He adjusted his suit and let out a sigh. It had been about two years since his best friend died, and he'd started a new life for himself. He was happy. He had Mary, a nice flat for the two of them, and now he was at last getting married. If that was the case, why was his mind swimming with thoughts that this was somehow… wrong? He was finally leading a normal life, and he'd never been more content.

"John."

When he returned from Afghanistan, he heard gunshots and the voices of his fellow soldiers, but he could never make out who or what exactly he was hearing. It was bearable, at least.

Now, it was different.

He knew exactly who was speaking to him: Sherlock, and his voice rang loud and clear. It was as if Sherlock was standing right there beside him. When the hallucinations first began, John would turn towards the direction he thought the voice was coming from. Now, he'd gotten used to it, but it still felt like a knife piercing his heart everytime he heard it.

"Goodbye, John."

He had to focus. He was about to propose, and she would be back any minute now-

"Sorry that took so long," Mary said from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

John's head snapped up and he snatched the box from the table to return it to his pocket. He offered her a smile as she sat down in an attempt to ease any suspicion she might have. Mary was clever and he wanted to keep this a surprise.

"You okay?" she asked after a pause.

Could she tell something was different? Did he look different? Did she see the ring? Had he given it all away?

"Yeah. Yeah, me? Fine. I am fine," he stammered.

She smiled and he chuckled in response.

"Now then, what did you want to ask me?" she urged, her eyes eager.

"More wine?" he offered in a last attempt at stalling.

"No I'm good with water, thanks."

"Right."

So much for the champagne.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to find himself at a loss for words. He closed it again.

Mary's eyes shifted uneasily. "So…"

"Uh, so…" John imitated. He regarded her for a moment. Two years ago he would have never imagined himself in this position.

"Mary. Listen, um…" he began as he collected his thoughts. "Although I know it hasn't been long, and I know we haven't known each other for a long time-"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock interrupted in John's mind, although John was sure for a moment that it was real.

He stared at the table for a few seconds to let the intense nostalgia pass in order to continue. This was a common occurrence for him, and Mary understood this.

"Go on," she said with wide, patient eyes.

"Yes, I will," he assured her. He paused and reminded himself how grateful he was for Mary's kindness. "As you know, these last couple years haven't been easy for me, but meeting you…"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes," the voice interjected.

John hesitated for a moment before going on. "Yeah, meeting you, has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree," Mary said.

"What?"

"I agree. I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."

He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. It certainly didn't sound like it. He laughed and hoped he didn't look too exasperated.

"Sorry," she said.

"Well, no. It's…" he rambled as he struggled with how to continue. "So, if you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…"

Why wasn't this working?

Mary chuckled, clearly amused by John's difficulty.

He cleared his throat. He was going to do this. "If you could see your way to-"

The waiter from earlier rushed over rambling on about the bottle of champagne he was holding. Of all times, why now?

Mary bit her fingernail to refrain from laughing. She was apparently thinking the same thing.

"No sorry, not now," John said in an attempt to dismiss him, but the waiter continued on anyway.

John threw Mary an awkward glance as he avoided looking at the man, and she returned it with one of her own.

The waiter went on, "A gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware they are staring into the face of an old friend."

John finally decided to look at him as he spoke, in hopes that the waiter would finally listen to him. "Now, look. Seriously, could you just-"

John's whole world seemed to stand still for a moment. He thought he might have been hallucinating this as well, but no. Sherlock Holmes was very real, and very alive. He was standing right in front of him and sporting a tuxedo and the stupidest drawn on mustache he could imagine.

John's face softened. He had wanted so badly for Sherlock to not be dead. He even begged him to be alive at his grave once. One more miracle was all he asked for, and now he had it. He was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to reach out to Sherlock, just to make sure he was truly there.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo," Sherlock said. "And its distinction to friends, and anonymity to waited."

The couple looked at each other as they tried to grasp the situation.

Sherlock always had to do the most ridiculous things. He couldn't ever take the normal route. No, he had to fake his bloody death as some sick joke, perhaps, and then disguise himself as a waiter two years later to reveal he was actually alive.

He couldn't hold Mary's stare any longer. He couldn't sit still for any longer. He pushed himself out of his chair and took a deep breath when he was face to face with Sherlock.

"John," Mary said, concerned. "John what is it?"

Sherlock's eyes seemed bottomless. John felt like he was drowning as he took in his friend's face for the first time in years. When he couldn't bear it, he looked down again. This was too much at once with so little warning.

"Well, short version," Sherlock said, commanding John to look at him again. "Not dead."

Sherlock truly did not realize how painful this was for John.

Sherlock's face contorted, suddenly looking unsure of himself. John had seen this look on him only a few times before.

"A bit mean to spring it on you like that, I know," Sherlock said, finally realizing his massive error. "Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will, but in my defense it was very funny."

So he thought it was funny, then. He thought it was funny to trick everyone into thinking he was dead while he watched them mourn. John's veins burned with fire, and now he wanted nothing more than to make Sherlock regret that comment.

"Okay, it's not a great defense," Sherlock said in a lame attempt to save himself.

"Oh, no," Mary breathed. "You're-"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock returned."

"Oh, my God."

"Not quite."

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

"No."

"You're dead!"

"No, I'm quite sure I checked," he said, picking up a napkin from the table. "Excuse me."

John's eyes followed Sherlock's hands as he dipped the napkin into Mary's water and proceeded to wipe away the fake mustache.

"Does yours rub off, too?" Sherlock said between swipes on his upper lip.

Even after all this, John had to fight back a laugh in order to maintain his death stare on Sherlock.

"Oh, my God," Mary sputtered. "Oh, my God. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Okay, John," Sherlock said. "I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology."

John slammed his fist down on the table before he could slam it into Sherlock's face. He stared at his shoes and tried in vain to keep his composure.

"Alright, John. Just keep…" Mary offered in an attempt to calm him down.

"Two years," John huffed as he struggled for air. He felt tears sting his eyes when he glanced up at his friend. His eyes returned to the floor and he took a deep breath. "Two years," he repeated, looking at him again.

Sherlock looked more vulnerable than John had ever seen him. His eyes seemed to be pleading to John to forgive him now that he'd realized what he'd done. John grunted as he felt his heart being torn in two, and his gaze shifted to the ground again.

"I thought-" John said as he tried to meet Sherlock's eyes again. That desperate look sent another wave of agony through John, and he grunted and looked at his shoes again.

John had to do this. He had to let Sherlock know exactly what he made him go through. He had to look him in the eyes and let him know the pain he caused him.

"I thought," John tried again. His eyes wandered, but he returned them to Sherlock. "You were dead. Hm? Now, you let me grieve. Hm? How could you do that? How?"

Although it was difficult to see Sherlock so regretful, it was more satisfying to John than anything to let out all the anger he'd pent up for years.

"Wait, before you do anything that you might regret," Sherlock said, picking up on the fact that John was tempted to give Sherlock what he deserved. "One question. Just let me ask one question."

John locked his eyes back on Sherlock's and waited. This man has been the cause of so much pain and tragedy in John's life. He was instantly fascinated by Sherlock the moment he met him. He was dangerous… Mysterious… But it was more than that, too. He was interested in what John had to say. He viewed him as something more than your average man. He saw something in him, and so Sherlock took him under his wing and gave him some of the most exciting experiences of his life. For the first time, John didn't feel so alone.

And then he died, or so John thought. He had everything he could have asked for in another person, and then it was ripped away from him. The loss was greater than any he had experienced before. He stood there and watched as his best friend plummeted to his death, and his voice had been running through his head ever since. Nothing, not even Mary, could fill that hole inside of him.

"Are you really gonna keep that?" Sherlock said with a cheeky grin as he gestured at his upper lip.

Sherlock glanced down at Mary, probably hoping for some kind of support, but all he got was a disbelieving huff.

Unable to contain himself, John rushed at Sherlock and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pushing him back and onto the ground. God, it felt good to have his hands around the bastard's neck, until he felt hands pull him up again.


End file.
